


Daughter of the Storm

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Warrior Queen, F/F, F/M, Fire and Blood, M/M, The Story Daenerys Deserved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-03-20 18:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18998119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Resurrected at the Red Temple in Volantis, recently deceased Daenerys Targaryen renews her campaign to end slavery across Essos...but ever is her eye drawn towards Westeros, towards the man who had killed her and the people who betrayed her. Can she weigh purpose against hate, survival against revenge? But more concerning is the revelation that Daenerys might not be responsible for her devastating attack on King’s Landing. This is a story to rewrite the wrongs of D&D, and paint Daenerys as you’ve always known her: a rescuer, a liberator, and a fighter.





	1. Prologue: The Price

The plateau was situated just above  a jagged rise in the Red Waste—a pinnacle of scorched rock that thrust itself outwards to the westering sun. Silhouetted against the dying day, it looked like a half-broken sword...though half-broken swords rarely had men standing at the tip of them like stone sentinels. 

 

This man Daenerys Targaryen knew well. 

 

He was cleaner in death. Some of the scruff had left his crude face. His eyes—a rich, earthy brown—were not swimming in the regret they had often drowned in when alive. 

 

This man’s name was Jorah Mormont. 

 

Feeling as if she were in a dream—some limbo without a name, a shore on a distant land—Daenerys walked towards him. Her hair—white-blonde and soft as silk—cascaded down to her waist. Only when she was halfway there, to her bear, that she realized she wore Dothraki riding leathers. 

 

“Jorah,” she said when she reached him. 

 

Her defender stood perilously close to the edge, where a precipitous drop led to a graveyard of strewn rock big enough to break any man’s bones. Nonetheless he turned to her, and smiled. A lump was suddenly in Dany’s throat. She feared that if she spoke, her voice would crack, and she would be unable to say more. 

 

“ _ Khaleesi _ ,” he said, smiling. His voice sounded younger somehow, more youthful. “Beautiful view. I was admiring it.”

 

Daenerys looked and could see what Jorah meant—the desert stretched out into the far west, lost in shadows of purple and pink. She had walked here before, hadn’t she? 

 

Yes, she thought.  _ I led my Khalasar to the Bone City, and then to the lion’s den, to Qarth.  _

 

How long ago it seemed now, as if a thousand years had passed, oozing by slowly like thick honey. 

 

“Jorah...” Dany began, but suddenly couldn’t find the words. What could she say? What could she possibly say to make him understand? And then she felt it. A phantom pain, right over her heart. It was only an imprint of the flower, but a flower that still had thorns. 

 

Jorah turned back to the sun then, but his smile remained. 

 

“I am sorry,” he said. 

 

This distracted Dany from the throb. “Whatever for?”

 

Jorah sighed. “For a lot of things, Daenerys. I’m sorry that I sold those slaves. I’m sorry that I reported to Robert. I’m sorry I gave you attention you had never asked for. But none of those matter now. What matters now is that I’m sorry I left too soon.”

 

A tear rolled down Dany’s cheek, a tear she didn’t have the energy to stop. He was dancing around the matter that Daenerys didn’t want to talk about, the very thing she wanted to forget.

 

“You died brave,” she said defiantly. “You died a dragon.”

 

“But I was always a bear,” Jorah said sadly. “And a lousy one. Does it still hurt?”

He pointed to her chest. 

 

The sun had sunk behind the distant hills, leaving a vacuum of dark blues and grays to steal into the world like venom. The desert now looked like a frozen sea, storm-tossed and violent. 

 

Daenerys placed a hand over the heart. “Yes.”

 

“The pain will fade. It did for me.”

 

And Daenerys knew that he had sustained far more wounds than Daenerys had in the Throne Room at King’s Landing. Maybe the hurt would finally go away. But, more importantly, would the memory? 

 

_ You are my queen... _

 

The words echoed through her head

like the toll of bells. Daenerys felt a flash of sudden anger, so hot, so violent, that the darkening desert seemed to have lit up again. She wanted to rage, to scream, to wake the dragon curled up inside her. 

But it soon passed as if in a dry wind, to be replaced by an all too familiar feeling: fear. 

 

Who was she now? Where was she? Daenerys felt lost again, as lost as the girl who fled Robert’s assassin’s with Viserys. She felt gutted, as if somebody had scooped all her grief out to leave only a numb ringing. 

 

“I have to go home,” Daenerys said. 

 

“And where’s home?” Jorah was still smiling, as if nothing was the matter. 

 

Truth be told, Daenerys Targaryen didn’t know where home truly was. Meereen? Dragonstone? King’s Landing? The red door, by the lemon tree in Braavos? Or were they all home?  _ Well, if they are, not King’s Landing _ , she thought.  _ Never King’s Landing _ . 

 

“I don’t know,” she said, the obstruction in her throat suddenly larger. She could not breathe here. 

 

“I know a home,” Jorah said matter of factly. 

 

Dany looked at him, and for the first time that day in whatever place she was, smiled. “You do?” 

 

“Yes,” he said, and raised his hand to point at something in the far distance. 

 

And Daenerys beheld a storm. 

 

Now this was not a storm of swords. It was not a storm of rain, or ice, or ash. 

 

No. 

 

It was a storm of wings, of claws, of amber, jade, red, and violet eyes winking in the dark like twinkling stars. It was a storm of leathery wings and snouts as large as galleons. It was a storm of fire, hot lances of flame thick as tree trunks scouring the air of dust. 

 

It was a storm of dragons. 

 

The fire reflected in Dany’s lilac eyes, like molten lava on violet pools. Her heart beat in rhythm with the thump of the dragons’ wings as hundreds of thousands of them—a cloud of untamed, raw energy—swooped in and out of each other. 

 

And she knew what Jorah meant, what she had to do.

 

“When?” she asked, tearing her eyes away from the spectacle. “When do I get back?”

 

But Jorah only gave her the same smile as before. 

 

_ You are my queen... _

 

His words, his voice echoed in her head.

Then others added to his, an unholy cacophony. 

 

_ What about the North... _

 

_ She’s not one of us... _

 

_ What kind of a madman climbs onto a fucking dragon... _

 

_ You slaughtered a city... _

 

_ Wake up, Daenerys. Fill us with fire, fill us with flame.  _

 

Daenerys paused at the last voice, for she could not recognize it. Who was speaking? Who was it? 

 

It didn’t matter now. She knew what she had to do. She had to be brave. Brave like her mother. Brave like her sun-and-stars, gone though he was. 

 

“Goodbye, Jorah,” she said. 

 

“Goodbye,  _ Khaleesi _ ,” he said. Only too late did she realize that he had already said goodbye, many times before. 

 

And she had done something that would have made any Targaryen proud: she flung herself off the ledge of the plateau and plummeted, all the while watching the dragons dance in the dark, inky night. 

 

_ Fire made flesh _ , she thought.  _ As am I _ . 

 

_ As am I _ . 

 

She hit the ground, or rather passed through it like vapor, and suddenly she was nothing in nothing. Soulless, timeless, sexless. Then...

 

_ Bride of Fire, Slayer of Lies... _

 

Whispers, whispers in the black. There were hundreds of thousands of them—disembodied men and women and children crying out into the cool dark. 

 

_ Breaker of Chains, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea... _

 

Some added their voices to the ones closest, amplifying them. A discordant cacophony of prophecy, shame, denial...betrayal. 

 

_ Mother, Mother, Mhysa! _

 

Then came a flower of pain, blooming where her heart was. A pulsating, violent throbbing that threw color into the world. 

 

_ King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men... _

 

A light winked into existence, a star in the abyss, filling the emptiness with an unnatural warmth. She looked at it. She reached out her hand. 

 

_ Mother of Dragons, The Unburnt... _

 

Daenerys Stormborn opened her eyes.


	2. Pain in the New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resurrected at the Red Temple in Volantis, recently deceased Daenerys Targaryen renews her campaign to end slavery across Essos...but ever is her eye drawn towards Westeros, towards the man who had killed her and the people who betrayed her. Can she weigh purpose against hate, survival against revenge? A fan fiction to rewrite the wrongs of D&D, and paint Daenerys as you’ve always known her: a rescuer, a liberator, and a fighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I’m so glad you guys are liking my story so far. This second chapter is Daenerys waking up, realizing what’s happened, and coming to terms with it (at least trying to). Jorah Mormont, also, will return in later chapters...but you’ll have to wait and find out how ;)

The very first thing Daenerys Targaryen noticed when she awoke were a pair of bright jade eyes swimming in the shadows before her. For a fraction of a second she thought she must still be dreaming, until her eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom and spied the truth: the piercing eyes belonged to a black—and particularly rugged looking—cat. 

 

_ He must be the veteran of half a dozen battles _ , Daenerys thought disconnectedly, her brain feeling like it was shrouded in fog. Indeed, the cat had patches of fur missing entirely in places. His left eye was foggy, and his right ear split neatly down the middle as if from a particularly nasty scratch. Before she could examine the cat more, it merely turned and hopped off the entablature on which it had sat. This gave Daenerys ample time to examine her surroundings, barren as they were. 

 

In a state of almost dreamlike calm, she surmised that the hard surface she was laying on had to be a stone slab—almost like the lid to a coffin. While the area before her was ensconced in an impenetrable darkness, the space surrounding the slab to her left, right, and back had a distinctly pyramidal shape lit by an assortment of flickering braziers. The limestone walls rose in a triangular fashion to a ceiling she could not see. She was also alone, and the air inside wherever she was had a bite to it. 

 

Encroaching on the fringes of her awareness was a tinge of panic. Where was she? How had she come to lie here, of all places? Was she in King’s Landing? The Sept of Baelor? But no, there was no more sept. Cersei Lannister had seen to that. _But more importantly_ , she thought, _where is Drogon?_ _Where is my dragon?_

 

It was this thought that overrode all the rest. In a state of almost blind anxiety, she sat up and cried out. A fierce, relentless pain throbbed over where her heart was. Startled, Dany laid a hand over her breasts—realizing she was clothed in a coarse roughspun robe—and examined the epicenter of her discomfort. 

 

Pulling the folds of her robe up slowly, she beheld a thin and scabbed scar just below her heart. It was a livid, garish red—as if recently blooded. That had been where the small dagger entered, upthrust so as to pierce her heart from below. Feeling faint, she slowly inhaled.  _ I am the blood of the dragon _ , she told herself.  _ I am the dragon’s daughter. I will not be afraid.  _

 

“Good,” a female voice spoke. “You are awake.”

 

Daenerys jerked her head around so fast she cricked her neck. Standing ten feet from the stone slab was a beautiful woman, neither old nor young. She had sharp, high cheekbones and eyes as deep as pools. She had on a rich red robe, a choker around her throat with a ruby the size of a small stone lodged in the center of it—the center which seemed to glow a luminous, blood-red. 

 

“Who are you?” Dany demanded, feeling suddenly vulnerable. 

 

The Red Priestess—for she couldn’t be anything else, Dany thought—simply smiled. She had seen many in her youth, traveling the Free Cities, mere steps ahead of King Robert’s hired knives. 

 

“All in good time, Daenerys of the House Targaryen,” the Priestess said. “All in good time.”

 

“I will not ask again.  _ Who  _ are you and what is—”

 

But before Daenerys could finish her sentence, the Priestess snapped an elegant finger against her thumb and four red-robes acolytes poured into the room, baring a tray laden with figs, dates, water and wine. They set it down on a tray close to the slab, bowed, and left without a word. 

 

“You must eat,” said the Priestess calmly. She sat on a nearby entablature—the frieze depicting three elephants at war with a dragon—and smoothed out the creases in her robe. 

 

Daenerys merely stared at the woman. Then, seeing that nothing would shatter the cold composure of the Priestess, decided to humor her...for now. Tentatively, she took a mug of water and tried a sip. The effect was instantaneous: her insides suddenly felt reinvigorated, a cool ice to temper the wriggling heat inside her. When she set the mug back down, she breathed in, gathering her strength, and returned her gaze to the woman. 

 

“Where am I?” she asked. 

 

The woman continued to smile, but before long she spoke. “You are in Volantis, greatest of the Free Cities. You have the honor to be inside the Red Temple of Rh’llor, God of Shadow and Flame.”

 

Daenerys gulped, fighting to beat down the sudden flare of worry that had surged inside her.  _ Volantis _ , she thought. Her brother Viserys used to tell her stories of Volantis, whenever they had the time, whenever they had a minute to catch their breath. He had told her it was the oldest and proudest of the Free Cities in Essos. Situated at the mouth of the Rhoyne, Volantis boasted a harbor to rival even that of King’s Landing or Oldtown in Westeros. 

 

“And you?” Dany asked, taking care to keep an eye on the shadows around the woman. Was she truly alone? More importantly, was she in danger?

 

“I am but a servant. Kinvara, they call me. But in the eyes of Rh’llor names mean nothing.”

 

_ Kinvara. I know that name _ . 

 

“You were in Meereen,” Daenerys said. “After I flew away on Drogon. Tyrion Lannister told me.”

 

Kinvara smiled again. “Indeed. Your dwarf and the Spider had quite a time trying to keep commerce in Meereen strong. Though, in the end, it was you who restored it to its former glory.”

 

Dany’s head whirled. She remembered having the Red Temple’s support, even before the Slavers had come to try and retake Meereen. Did that mean, then, she was safe here? Surely they would not harm her? For why even attempt such a thing, if only to bring her back in the first place?  _ For I know now,  _ Daenerys thought.  _ I was dead, and now I am not _ . 

 

Daenerys, keeping her face expressionless, took another sip of water. “Tell me everything.” 

 

Kinvara settled back into the entablature, the red ruby at her throat glowing. 

 

“It’s a simple enough tale,” she began. “The day you sacked King’s Landing was the day you died. Jon Snow”—Dany’s heart missed a beat when she heard his name—“thrust his dagger into your heart. Your life ended not too far from the spot in which your father’s life ended.”

 

This Daenerys knew, despite her mind’s best efforts to erase the memory. For that was the first thing she thought of, even before she opened her eyes and saw the jade eyes of the cat. She had thought of Jon Snow. Her lover, her protector. 

 

Her murderer. 

 

_ You are my queen...you will always be my queen… _

 

“Then,” Kinvara continued, “Drogon burned the Iron Throne to the ground, scooped you up, and departed from Westeros.”

 

Daenerys could only stare. The image of the Iron Throne burning flared across her eyes: runnels of molten metal scorching the marble floor. The blades of Aegon’s fallen enemies wilting like flowers in winter. Her goal, her life, gone. For some odd reason, maybe due to the fact that she felt oddly disassociated, the thought did not pack as much pain as she had expected it to. Come to think of it, she could not remember the siege of the city. She remembered the accusations, something about murdered children, but all she remembered was the sweet sense of victory. 

 

“And he brought me here?” she asked. 

 

“Indeed. And we set to work at once. It has been six months—”

 

Daenerys sat up straighter, ignoring the spike of pain that had lanced up her ribcage. “ _ Six months _ ?”

 

Kinvara’s smile vanished, though none of the warmth left her eyes. “Yes. Six months.”

 

Six whole months, gone, as fast as that, in the blink of an eye…

 

“Where’s Drogon?” 

 

“He is across the river at the moment.”

 

“What about Greyworm? And Tyrion, and my army—”

 

At this Kinvara suddenly stood. “You mustn’t ask so many questions. It is too early in the awakening, you could upset—”

 

But Dany no longer cared. Red hot rage boiling in her gut, she stood up—hair unbound hair cascading down to her waist—and strode over to Kinvara, nostrils flared. 

 

“ _ Where is Greyworm _ ?”

 

Kinvara seemed shocked. “You can...you can  _ walk _ …”

 

Daenerys bit her lip, hard. “Never mind that. I need to know what’s happened. Tell me now, I command it.”

 

Kinvara, as if reminded she was speaking to a queen, suddenly fumbled for words. She seemed less poised than she was before, no longer unflappable.  _ Perhaps she realizes she is talking to Daenerys Stormborn _ , Dany thought,  _ and not a scared little girl.  _

 

“Greyworm and the Unsullied—with the remaining Dothraki—sailed for Naath not three months past,” Kinvara said quickly. 

 

“And what of Westeros?”

 

“In shambles,” she said matter of factly. “Bran Stark rules—”

 

At this Daenerys almost choked. “ _ Bran  _ Stark?”

 

Kinvara nodded. “Yes. He rules from King’s Landing advised by Tyrion Lannister and a small council over the Six Kingdoms…”

 

“Six? Not seven?”

 

“The North succeeded, ruled now by Sansa Stark. But winter is not over—thousands die from starvation, and Dorne has rallied its banners in the far south.”

 

It was too much, too much information. Dany sat back down on the slab, trying to filter it all. Bran Stark as King, Sansa Stark as Queen…

 

“And of my killer?” Daenerys asked quietly. 

 

Kinvara almost seemed reluctant to speak, but off of Dany’s expression, she quickly acquiesced. “Ventured beyond the broken Wall with his companion Tormund and the wildlings, exiled for his crime.”

 

_ Exiled. They exiled him.  _ Daenerys would have laughed if it didn’t hurt so much. 

 

Before she could ask another question, however, there came a loud boom from above them—a boom that sent shafts of dust spiraling down into the stone chamber. Kinvara gave a nervous smile. 

 

“It seems he knows his mother is awake.”

 

“Where?” Daenerys asked. 

 

“Follow me,” Kinvara said. 

 

And without another word Kinvara swept from the chamber, and Daenerys followed her. They shuffled across a flagstoned floor towards a narrow spiral staircase lit by a single candle. Still silent, Daenerys followed her up the winding steps. It felt like forever: just when she thought it was over, another turn and there were more stairs. Up and up they climbed, until the back of Kinvara’s robe was saturated with sweat. At last, however, they came upon an oaken door set into the stone, limned in a sunset light. Kinvara opened it, and Daenerys stepped outside. 

 

And saw one of the most magnificent things she had ever laid eyes on. 

 

The sprawling bridge-city of Volantis lay sprawling below, looking like a rickety  _ cavasse _ board. Thousands upon thousands of people below bustled to and fro within the cobbled streets, as tiny as ants from the Red Temple’s roof...and what a roof it was. 

 

The stone on the outside of the Temple was sunset made stone, a lacquered confection of purples, reds, oranges, and pinks. It almost looked like colored dragonglass, and reflected the westering sun brilliantly. But it was nothing to the sheer size of the Temple itself: domes and towers and a monolithic base towered the pyramidal structure at the top of the Temple into the velvet sky, strewn with the night’s first stars. 

And sitting on one of the towers, his massive shadow leaving a third of the roof in darkness and looking directly at her, was Drogon. 

 

She ran to him. 

 

She had never ran like that before, not since she had been a little girl, when she had danced around the lemon tree in Braavos, by the house with the red door. She ran and Drogon, seeing this, roared his fury into the air, shaking the stone. 

 

And when she reached him, he slowly crawled down the tower and went on all fours, his thumbwings scraping loose dirt off of the faux stone. His great, amber eyes pierced her. 

And she lay her head against his scales, to feel the warmth, to feel the life pumping through his veins. And he whined, a piteous wailing that half of Volantis undoubtedly heard. 

 

Daenerys Targaryen had found her home. 

 

All thoughts of the Iron Throne, of Jon Snow and Sansa Stark and Tyrion Lannister were banished from her mind like petulant wisps of bothersome smoke. It no longer mattered. Her son was here, her only child, and all she could do was smile. Smile for the first time after having been asleep for so long, and listen to the furious pounding of his life’s blood. One girl, one dragon, both with incredibly loud heartbeats. 

 

But then, as she lay against Drogon, she heard another roar—lower in frequency, yet just as fierce. Bewildered, she whirled around and—as Kinvara smiled—fell to her knees, the tears coming whether she willed it or no. 

 

On the horizon, flapping towards the massive roof of the Temple, was a massive shape, leathery wings as green as summer grass. 

 

Daenerys tears were happiness, joy, love, loss, grief. She cried for Jorah, for Irri, for Missandei. She cried for her children, the ones gone and the ones she hadn’t found just yet. Her tears were rivers that carried her heart to the open ocean. 

 

Rhaegal had returned. 


	3. The Beginnings of a Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with my story so far! It is a slow burn fic, and I’m trying to capture the essence of Martin’s stories. In this chapter, Daenerys weighs her options and begins to make a plan...but can she prevail?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All our favorite characters—Missandei, Jon, Arya, Grey Worm, the Unsullied and the Dothraki, the Westerosi, will make appearances soon...but first, Daenerys must make plans.

“Armor?” Kinvara asked politely, setting her goblet of wine down on the table between her and Daenerys.

 

“Yes,” Dany said, taking a sip from her own goblet. “Armor.”

 

They sat on one of the many terraces that wrapped around The Red Temple—a conical ring made of the same luminous stone as the rest of the structure. A brine-filled breeze swept inland from the Rhoyne, bringing with it the cry of catchers and gulls. Four-masted brigantines sat bobbing in the harbor, the smoke from the Central Square of the Bridge pervading the air with a smoky haze that even the relentless sun had a hard time diffusing. 

 

“And you want it by the end of next week?” Kinvara asked, eyebrows furrowed. 

 

“By the end of next week” Dany repeated, and smiled. 

 

The conversation between the Red Priestess and the Dragon Queen had begun simply enough: questions of how Kinvara had retrieved Rhaegal’s body from Dragonstone. That had been a feat, and no mistake: to risk the waters around Dragonstone so soon after King Bran’s coronation—especially when rumor had it that no secret could be kept from him—seemed virtually impossible. But Kinvara had resources of her own, resources that respected discretion. She had hired sellswords out of Lys that owed the servants of Rh’llor a favor. They had Rhaegal’s limp body stowed on board a single-mast galley within the month. The resurrection did not take long when he arrived in Volantis under the cover of darkness. 

 

Then Daenerys had posed inquiries after the political status of Slaver’s Bay. Daario Naharis, Custodian of Meereen, had managed to not only boost the markets of the Great City, but eradicate the corruption that had plagued its wending alleys since before even Daenerys had conquered it. Violence no longer hung in the air above the Great Pyramid, and the Wise Masters had all fled beyond the muddy Skahazadan. 

Yunkai and Astapor both were kept in grip from a conglomerate of freedmen styled The Benefactors. All, it seemed, was well in Essos—or as well that could be allowed. 

 

Now Daenerys had steered the conversation into less calm waters, and this realization had begun to dawn on Kinvara’s normally placid expression. 

 

“Surely you don’t think to leave so soon?” Kinvara said. She traced the rim of her goblet with a red-nailed finger. 

 

“War waits for no one,” Daenerys said lightly. 

 

Kinvara’s jaw slackened. “W- _ war _ ? My Queen... you do not mean…”

 

“I’m not returning to Westeros. Not yet, anyway.”

 

Westeros, the land of her ancestors, would have to wait. Politically destabilized as it was, Daenerys knew better than to return just now. She’d be a fool, with her army gone. The commoners would only spit on her, and gods only knew what the nobility would do. She had thought burning King’s Landing would bring them to heel...

 

_ But no _ , she thought.  _ I mustn’t think of that _ .  _ If I look back, I am lost _ . 

 

“Then whatever do you mean?” Kinvara asked. 

 

But Daenerys was no longer paying attention. For in the air above Volantis, swirling around each other in great arcs, were her children.  _ The only children I will ever have _ . Drogon and Rhaegal, bigger than they had ever been, flapped their mighty wings to buffet the air. Each lift and fall of their massive wings sent updrafts to take them into the beams of sun able to penetrate the fog. Though something didn’t seem quite right, and Daenerys was able to pinpoint her discomfort quickly.  _ It will never be the same, without Viserion. _ She had asked Kinvara about her first fallen son, but the Red Priestess said it would be impossible to retrieve him. He was locked away in the Winterfell crypts, practically bone now, and Queen Sansa let nobody in to mourn him. 

 

_ Queen in the North _ , Daenerys thought idly, as Rhaegal swooped down to snap playfully at Drogon’s colossal backlegs.  _ But a Queen for how long? _

 

“My Queen?” 

 

Daenerys was snapped out of her reverie. Kinvara was looking at her with a concerned expression. Daenerys sighed, standing up. “I will talk no more for now. Take me to the armorers. We need this finished within the week.”

 

“But for what—”

 

“Kinvara,” Dany said curtly, though not unkindly. “Please. Take me to the armorers. Tomorrow morning, at noon.”

 

Without another word, Daenerys got up from the table and departed the small terrace for the cool dark inside the Temple. They were below the pyramidal roof now—the Temple was a confusing labyrinth of marble corridors, stairs, doors and floors. It was like walking through a maze, though Kinvara made sure she knew the acolyte floor well.  _ I may be lost here _ , she thought,  _ but I know my own way _ . For the beginnings of a plan had hatched in her mind. 

 

That night she was up all night in the Temple library, a colossal atrium filled to the brim with centuries-old tomes. Most had collected a fine film of dust over the years, but it made no matter: all night, and into the early morning when the sun rose and beat the waters of the Rhoyne like hammered metal, she planned. She planned, and planned, and planned. She planned until her fingers felt stubbed like old tallow candles. She planned until her eyelids dropped as if lead weights had been tied to the bottom of them. In the end, she planned until she was as confident as she could be...though still with an immense, churning fear in her gut. 

 

For Daenerys Targaryen had a scheme, so daring, so wild, that it would be months in the making, and any setback could spell disaster. 

 

But first, she had to get the armor.  _ If I look back, I am lost.  _

 

She went to sleep that morning in a daze, roused only when Kinvara woke her for the task she had promised to help her with. Together they left the Temple. 

 

“There are thousands of blacksmiths in Volantis,” Kinvara said as they strode down the main thoroughfare minutes later. It was high noon, and the Great Bridge could not have been busier. Hundreds of men, women, and children crowded the streets so as to fill them full to bursting. Vendors cried their wares and archons meandered by on plush palanquins borne by thick-snouted elephants. The weather was boiling, as if they had been steeped in stew, and the smell of salt pervaded the evening air. 

 

Daenerys wore a red woolen robe that was stifling in the heat, a cowl drawn up to conceal her face. Kinvara had made it plain that thousands would spoil to kill her if it meant a bag of gold in the end. Then Daenerys had asked after her dragons. Surely the city-folk would inquire after the large reptiles flying in the sky, and to whom they belonged? But Kinvara had merely smiled, and said that there were ways to conceal beasts from prying eyes—ways that Rh’llor himself had taught his children. True enough, when Daenerys watched them play-fight over the rooftops of Volantis, not one bell was rung, not one cry heard ringing out—they were utterly shaded from the eyes of the city. Even so...

 

The thought made her sad. Perhaps worse, it made her feel like a little girl again. The return of Rhaegal had strengthened her resolve, but the thought of being on the run had crumbled what little defenses she had left.  _ But I am the dragon’s daughter,  _ she thought as they made a turn onto an almost labyrinthine-like alley.  _ I must have fire in my eyes, not tears _ . 

 

As they navigated through the throng, Daenerys couldn’t help but notice the energy that hung in the air, thick as mist. Viserys had hold her that Volantis was a city that never slept; to close its eyes was to close its ports, markets, and stalls. True, even last night when a crescent moon threw silver light down onto the cobbled roofs, she had heard the revelry of parties and symposiums. 

 

At last they turned onto a high wide street with a magnificent view of the Rhoyne, a wide swath of purest blue that cut through the Essoian dirt. But more important was the large establishment perched on a bulge of rock, hanging out above the Great River. A gleaming sign hung from its rafter: _The Iron Fillers_. 

 

“Our destination,” Kinvara said. 

 

Daenerys examined the armor shop with a slight trace of foreboding. Here was where her carefully laid plans for the near-future started. If anything went wrong, if anything wrong in the slightest... _ stop,  _ she told herself.  _ To worry is to lose.  _ The sight of the Rhoyne stiffening her resolve, she strode after Kinvara. The latter opened a thick wooden door to permit them into the shop and both walked in. 

 

If she had been blindfolded, Daenerys would still have been able to come to the conclusion that  _ The Iron Fillers  _ was no shabby shop. Almost immediately upon entering the scent of refined oil, hot coals, and forge-smoke filled her nostrils. 

 

But it was nothing compared to what it actually looked like. 

 

Two landings boasted contraptions that rivaled the state-of-the-art inventions she’d seen in King’s Landing. Bubbling cauldrons, large fires, and heaps of scrolls surrounded a gleaming metal table that harbored some of the most interesting armor Dany had ever laid eyes on: horned helms, breastplates the size of palanquins, and even gauntlets and grieves that suspiciously looked like they’d fit the grooves of large wayns. Daenerys smiled. 

 

When she had been a girl, in the Free Cities, she had grown accustomed to the mayhem that was an armorer’s shop. Either clean or dirty, both had wonders to spare. 

 

“You have done well, Kinvara,” Daenerys said, feeling the first boost of confidence she had felt in the days since her reawakening. 

 

The Red Priestess couldn’t suppress a small grin. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

No sooner had she said this than a barrel-chested man with a wooly mustache limped into view from behind a shining oaken counter. He bowed. 

 

“Servants of the Temple! I am most pleased to be makin’ your acquaintance. My name is Grolo. How can I be of service?”

 

As he spoke, Daenerys noticed an odd tattoo situated on his left cheek, in the shape of a small black hammer and tongs. And then she remembered another fact Viserys had told her about Volantis, and cursed herself for not having thought of it sooner: this man—like many others in the Great City—were  _ slaves.  _ She dug her nails into her palm to keep from speaking as Kinvara replied. 

 

“Honorable Grolo, I am Kinvara of the Temple and this is...my acolyte. We have a request, and hope you award it the utmost secrecy.”

 

Upon saying this, Kinvara drew out of the folds of her cloak a large coin purse. Grolo looked at it, and smiled a toothless grin. The message was clear. 

 

“Understood! Now, what would you be wantin’?”

 

This was Dany’s turn to speak from the shadow of her hood. “The largest armor your shop will ever have made, most likely. But for 30,000 gold, I trust it will be made quickly.”

 

When Kinvara told Daenerys of the sum the Temple had been willing to offer to help her with the next phase of her plan, Daenerys almost choked on the chicken they had been supping on. 

 

_ “30,000?!”  _ she had exclaimed. 

 

Kinvara had simply smiled then. “Anything for our Queen, for we know she will repay it.”

 

“With what?”

 

“With  _ justice _ .”

 

And now it was time for the tricky part. Daenerys had spent all night pouring over old dusty books, painstakingly checking references. The Temple sculptor had aided her in this endeavor, and by the time dawn had begun lighting up the world, they had drawn a detailed schematic. But would poor Grolo consent to it? Daenerys had a feeling this half of the bargain lay in Kinvara’s hands. 

 

She handed over the schematic, which Grolo looked at. As he contemplated what he saw, his eyes widened.  _ “Gods _ …”

 

But after he read what he saw—after his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water—he spied again the coin purse that Kinvara dangled tantalizingly from her red-nailed finger. As if this decided the matter, he stood up and puffed out his chest. 

 

“Done. It will be done within the week.”

 

Daenerys, hidden in the shadow of her cowl, smiled...but another part of her felt guilty for smiling.  _ He is a slave _ , she thought, watching as he bade Kinvara and herself goodbye, no doubt to get started on the project.  _ A slave, like so many others.  _

 

But Daenerys looked out the nearest window, in the far distance, where two large dragons flew together over the Rhoyne. 

  
_ Yes, he is a slave _ , she thought.  _ But not for long _ . 


	4. Protection of the Highest Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys puts the first phase of her plan into motion, and her children return with a surprise...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for still sticking with this story! I appreciate and you guys are the best.

A week had passed, and Daenerys Targaryen stood on one of the many terraces around the Red Temple with Kinvara and waited with bated breath. Her wine was left untouched on the table behind her, as was the plate of dates and figs the acolytes had brought up from the kitchens. Her hair was unbound. She could not eat, not when she knew what was to come...to see if it had been successful, to see if Grolo the slave blacksmith had truly managed to complete the work so meticulously drafted onto that schematic. 

 

_ Will it be enough? Will any of it be enough _ ?

 

Volantis wasn’t just an old city—it was a proud one. Whereas Braavos had been founded by slaves, Volantis was built  _ by  _ slaves, though none of them reaped any kind of reward. The gargantuan maze of crumbling palaces, cloisters, bridges, and wineshops all ensconced within the gleaming Black Walls raised by the Valyrian Freehold did at first glance elicit sympathy, perhaps even envy. But the closer Dany looked, the harder she squinted, the rot had begun to show itself. A fungus of a thousand different varieties, but a fungus all the same. 

 

Testimony to this were those of the Old Blood, scions of ancient times, sequestered in their palatial manses in the eastern district across the bridge. That is where she had looked after visiting Grolo, and where her plan had begun to take root. Housed in safety the Triarchy ruled in a fragile peace over the Freehold, the elephant faction considerably more benefited in the bargain than the tigers. She had memorized their names after Kinvara mentioned them, memorized them so that she could repeat them without a second thought. 

 

_ Malaqou Maegyr, Doniphos Paenymion, Nyessos Vhassar.  _

 

Whenever she spoke them inside her head they felt oddly like prayers, almost assurances, and with each repetition a fire was kindled inside her that was hard to be extinguished. 

 

“You are sure the elections are tonight?” asked Daenerys, continuing to gaze out over the city. The sun had begun to set, limning the edges of the Black Walls into a burnished gold. 

 

“Yes, Your Grace,” the Priestess said. “Tonight the elephants and the tigers make war, but with words instead of swords.”

 

_ Yes _ , Dany thought.  _ With mere words they continue the enslavement of thousands, millions. Words can be crueler than swords, I know that.  _

 

Dany shook her head to dispel the thought, as if it was a bad dream. 

 

Tonight, the Triarchy would gather all in the Eastern Square. All the heads of state, the law makers, the law itself...all would congregate to decide the next year’s Triarchs, though the same three had a funny habit of winning each one. Democracy seemed to count for little if you had the right amount of gold and connection. 

 

“Then it is done,” Daenerys said, and the words seemed final, like the last stroke of a quill on a contract.  _ Though this contract I signed long ago, in the Plaza of Punishment, when I saw how the world treated those born without freedom _ . 

 

“It is done,” Kinvara repeated. “Shall I gather the acolytes?”

 

“Yes,” Dany said. 

 

Kinvara swept from the terrace in a rustle of red cloth. Then Daenerys waited, and waited, and waited. The sun had finally westered on the horizon, nothing but a livid red slashed across the sky. Just as it slipped behind the curvature of the Known World Kinvara returned. 

 

“They are ready,” she said. 

 

Daenerys nodded, and followed. They went down stairs, up some more. They made turns, double-backs, and traversed corridors that Daenerys had long since memorized. At last they arrived at their destination, Kinvara flushed, but Daenerys calm. 

 

Kinvara had amassed them in the Temple library, the very same library where Dany’s plan hatched a week prior. There were hundreds of them, pale-faced and red-robed, standing silent and at attention from the long dusty aisles. A raised dais stood adjacent to the entrance, a tiny raised stone with a columned plinth for scripture reading. Daenerys walked on it, and faced the silent crowd. 

 

“You all know why you are here,” Daenerys said, her voice echoing throughout the space as if magnified. For some strange reason, it only fueled the fire kindled inside her. “You swore, before Rh’llor, before the God of Flame and Shadow, to follow Daenerys Targaryen. And you are fulfilling the Lord’s wish.”

 

The crowd still stayed silent, still did not move a muscle. They were rigid as statues, as calm as cool rain in summer. 

 

“But I have not come here to utter false promises. I have not been brought back from the brink of death to give you words that mean nothing, that become ash in your mouth. No. But I will ask for another oath, an oath of duty. Will you swear it?”

 

In unison the acolytes nodded, a hundred heads bobbing up and down, like waves in a storm. 

 

And this time, Daenerys Targaryen smiled. 

 

“Then swear this: tonight, under the harvest moon, as the elections are held, you will ride out of this Temple. In the aisles before you, you will find letters. Disseminate them far and wide, as quickly as you can, and to every slave you can find. Throw them in the air, scatter them across the cobbled, but make them seen. Make them remembered. Do you swear this? Do you swear it on Rh’llor?”

 

And as one, as if each was synchronized in some subliminal way to the person beside them, they nodded. 

 

And Dany smiled again. 

 

“Then you go now, and may the God give you speed and strength.”

 

And suddenly they erupted into a frenzy of activity and moment, pushing to snatch at the folded pamphlets scattered on tables and in between books, pamphlets Daenerys had written each herself. Pamphlets she had spent all week on, from dawn into dusk, writing the same message, in her same tidy scrawl. Pamphlets she had cried over, strengthened herself over, and poured her soul over. Pamphlets that meant the difference between victory and failure, life and death. For tonight, under the harvest moon, the world would no longer be under the delusion that Daenerys Targaryen was dead. No. She meant to rob them of that notion—harshly. 

 

They began to file out of the library, and Daenerys turned to Kinvara. 

 

“Braid my hair,” she said. 

 

And they sat right there and then, before centuries of collected wisdom, and Kinvara used nimble fingers to pull and tug and subdue Dany’s hair. With each knot undone, with each braid finished, she felt the fire growing hotter in her, almost to the point of bursting. One at last she was done, she strode back to the terrace from which she had been only moments ago, Kinvara behind her. 

 

Only a faint trace of day lingered in the twilit sky.  Purple bruised to black, the night’s first stars beginning to wink into existence. She turned to Kinvara, and clasped her hand. 

 

“Thank you,” she said. 

 

Kinvara smiled, with the air of somebody who had just been given startling news. “You have no need to thank me, Your Grace. The honor is mine.”

 

“No,” Dany said. “The honor is  _ mine _ . You brought me back. You gave me the support of the Temple. For that, I am forever in your debt.”

 

“Not for long,” Kinvara said. “Haven’t I told you? Tonight you repay the debt in tenfold. You repay with justice. With fire and blood.”

 

_ If it works _ , Dany thought. So much of her plan rested on others: on their strength, on their courage. She could not succeed alone. 

 

“When I was a child,” she said, “I used to believe in happy endings. Of fat maids and laughing children. I used to believe in goodness. Is there goodness left?”

 

Kinvara pondered the question. “I think there is goodness...if we make it. It does not simply stroll on in, inviting itself for supper. We must forge it.”

 

_ With fire and blood _ , Dany thought. And then she felt the hot sting of tears threatening to well up in her eyes, and she bit her lip.  _ I am alone in the world. I’ve no family left but my children. Everybody has forsaken me.  _

 

“They died for me,” she said into the still night air, allowing just a single tear to fall. “Missandei, Jorah. They died for me. They died protecting me. Missandei, the girl with the kindest heart I’ve ever known, with a smile always at the corner of her mouth. And Jorah, my Bear, my protector and my fiercest ally. Gone, like summer snow.”

 

The image of Missandei’s lifeless body falling from the parapets of King’s Landing’s walls sent a jolt of pain through her, much like the knife that went through her heart had.  _ My brave girl _ , she thought.  _ My best friend. I love you, I love you. I hope you are with Viserion, with Jorah. I hope you are giggling over summerwine, the chains of a slave but a memory, the change of manacles but a scar you can barely feel.  _

 

Another tear fell. But oddly, Kinvara was smiling. 

 

“Are they  _ truly _ dead, Your Grace?” asked Kinvara with a knowing wink. 

 

Daenerys whirled on her. “What—”

 

But before another word could come out of her mouth, she heard a familiar set of earth-shaking roars rent the air. 

 

Her children had returned...but not the same. 

 

For as they swooped low towards the Temple, from the direction of Grolo’s armory where she had convinced them to stay put, visiting them late in the night after writing the letters, where she had willed all her might through the mind connection she shared with them to stay  _ put  _ with Grolo and not fly  _ anywhere _ , they had come changed. But not for the worst. 

 

The armor fit their scales like smooth silk, rippling under the rising moon, the encasement undulating like liquid silver. Drogon’s had streaks of dragonglass and ruby ingrained into the grooves where gauntlet met breastplate, Rhaegal’s emerald and amethyst. But it was no heavy castle forged steel, fit for

plough horses. It was Valyrian steel, the lightest of armor, and it encapsulated them so comfortably that they flew even faster, perhaps buoyed by the protection they now had. 

Grolo’s weeks worth of work had payed off, and it was more stunning than anything Daenerys could have possibly imagined. All dark thoughts were swept from her mind, gone away to some darker corner. 

 

Every critical part of their mass was protected, shrouded in near-impenetrable armor. Their forelegs and frontlegs had colossal greaves wrapped around them, and barely made a sound as they clinked with the main body armor: a tube of whittled Valyrian steel that wrapped around their midsections like a vice, albeit more comfortably. Their colossal heads were also encased in armor down to the neck, a long, sloping ramp of metal that flowed over the stumps of their heads like water and wrapped lovingly around their massive teeth, leaving slits for their great fierce eyes to look through. 

 

“It is beautiful,” Kinvara said from beside her, watching as her dragons happily soared closer and closer to the Temple. 

 

Daenerys looked to the east, where the Triarchs would no doubt be headed to the Eastern Square in palanquins. 

 

“Beautiful, yes,” Dany began, thinking of the Triarchs, of the wheel, and of the slaves...“But deadly.” 


	5. Shall We Begin?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I apologize for the ridiculously long wait for this chapter. A tragedy happened and I needed time to bounce back. But here I am!

Kinvara, with fingers deft and nimble, moved around Daenerys Targaryen’s silver war braid to work on the red and black armor that Grolo had personally tailored for her. 

 

“The pamphlets?” she asked. 

 

“Disseminated. Or so my spies tell me. Even now small revolts are popping in and out over the city. Quickly stifled. But once you make a move on the triarchs…”

 

The rest was history. 

 

As Kinvara strapped on the breastplate—rubies inlaid on the varnished black—Daenerys thought about what happened the last time she made war. There had been the clamor of bells. But she couldn’t remember anything after that. Just that, next moment, she had landed in the ashes of the Red Keep, knowing she’d won, knowing she’d…

_ Do not think about that. If I look back, I am lost.  _

 

It was odd. She hardly pondered her attack on King’s Landing. She thought about it briefly when she woke up, but it didn’t carry much weight as to what happened after the siege. She knew she had committed violence, but she just couldn’t...every time she thought about it, it was as if there was a block in her memory, a blank space that stretched from the moment the bells began to ring to the second they ceased their incessant clamor. She felt oddly disconnected. She knew, later, that she had burned the city to ash. But she felt a lack of emotion, a lack of responsibility for it. Even sympathy. Almost as if…

 

As if it weren’t her. 

 

But that didn’t matter now. What mattered was her plans for tonight. Kinvara, with a flourish, snapped the breastplate into place and stood back to admire her handiwork. 

 

It was, as Dany knew it would be, beautiful. 

 

She was Visenya Targaryen reborn, the lack of Dark Sister the only thing that felt missing. It was a man’s armor, thick and hard, crafted and castle-forged. A black cape flew down from the back, glittering in the dark, her silver hair offsetting it like some kind of balance. The armor itself was silver, black, and red. A dark ocean, bathed in moonlight and fire. 

 

Despite everything, despite the betrayal, and the lies, and the lost memories, and the omnipresent weight of the world on her shoulders, Daenerys allowed herself a small smile. 

 

“Shall we begin?”

 

***

 

Nyessos Vhasar was having, at least insofar, a rotten and miserable night. His silks clung to his skin like rotted, fetid snakeskin. The palanquin had developed a pervasive stench of aged cheese and infected feet, and his closest advisor just informed him that Malaqou Maegyr and Doniphos Paenymion had already arrived at the Eastern Square not but an hour ago—an hour behind the time in which they had all agreed to meet. 

 

_ Thieves and snakes _ , he thought bitterly as the palanquin lumbered into the proud East District, it’s wood creaking filling the empty warrens that tunneled through the Old Half of Volantis like worms.  _ I am surrounded by thieves and snakes, dressed as men.  _

 

Nyessos had grew up in Volantis. He had sucked on her teat since the day he was born, gorging himself on money, wine, women, boys, and other vices too many to name. He had been instrumental in her continued glory, in polishing the foundations to keep that proud City from falling into squalor like the rest. He had seen to it that the elephant party grew healthy and strong, a match for the warmongering tigers that always chanted about death and destruction, catastrophe and pain. But always did Volantis find a way to surprise Nyessos, to evolve so he had to find another way to combat its change. 

 

Like now. 

 

Nyessos could smell change in the air, like the crackle of dry flame before a storm. If tonight went his way, if the gods could truly be so benevolent, then Volantis would evolve yet again into something better, something brighter than the scions constant ramblings. It was no longer about what city had the highest towers. It was about which city had the best policy, and the unflinching nerve to wield it. 

 

Smiling, he almost forgot about the awful palanquin stench as it at last was set down in a shaded alcove. Heaving, he got up and stepped out into the humid night, thick with trapped air. The Eastern Square was a gargantuan market-yard with proportions that rivaled that of the Red Temple’s foundations. Hundreds crowded the open flagged stone, the din loud enough to set Nyesso’s aged ears ringing. 

 

“Nyessos, my old friend!”

 

Swaggering, as if from out of thin air, came the very  _ last  _ person he wished to see: Doniphos. He was a braggart and a drunk, with more fat on him than even Nyessos. He stifled the urge to groan, instead opting for a smile—albeit a very forced one. 

 

“Doniphos, a pleasure as always. I trust that Malaqou is on the platform?” 

 

Nyessos tried as best he could to be genial, but even he himself noticed that a hint of ice had crept into his tone. 

 

“Where else would he be? Yes, on the platform, and well onto his sixth cup of summerwine. From the Arbor, you know. Red and vintage, I hear. But come! Let us convene.”

 

And so Nyessos followed Doniphos into the throng, the fat man making a natural path through the assembly. As he went he noticed familiar faces in the crowd, mostly all of them accompanied by their tattooed slaves. That reminded Doniphos that he needed to see about his own slave, Haro, back at his manse. He was a blackened monstrosity from the Summer Islands, and needed to be relieved of duty. Nyessos had no use for old and broken things. 

 

The platform was little more than a raised wooden dias at the far end of the market-yard. It served a variety of functions: executions, trials, and (of course) elections. Seated in one of the three ebony high-backed chairs was Malaqou, fat fingers like stuffed sausages tearing apart a garlic roast capon. If Nyessos’s patience had been thin, it was practically non-existent now. He ground his teeth as he lumbered towards the platform, and Malaqou caught sight of him. 

 

“Nyessos! A pleasure. Why, I almost thought you wouldn’t come!”

 

Nyessos gave the triarch a smile like poisoned honey. 

 

“I would not dream of it, my old friend. I’m the only elephant—it would be poor choice if I did not come.”

 

“Bah!” Malaqou laughed, his rolls of fat jiggling as he chuckled. “Of course, of course, come! We must speak of Westeros.”

 

Nyessos stifled a groan. There was not a bloody day when Westeros  _ wasn’t  _ discussed. The topic had become a kind of venom, infecting every conversation, dogging his steps like a phantom, a specter whose history was written across the cobbled stones of the Old Bridge.  _ Westeros _ ,  _ The Sunset Kingdom.  _ But this was politics, and many a sacrifice had to be made to keep oneself a step ahead of the others. Nyessos sat in his chair and Doniphos followed, looking markedly out of breath. The crowd ignored them, as they usually ignored them; slaves and commoners and lesser men, too witless to understand the proceedings until they were already under way. It had always been this way: Nyessos on top and the faithless below him, too empty-headed—too fragile—to change the world he loved...a world in which power took precedence over empathy. 

 

Empathy was for the weak. 

 

“Let us look to the frozen North,” said Malaqou, pouring himself a generous amount of wine into a golden chalice. Nyessos’s eyes wandered, flickering towards to the triarch’s estate at the edge of the city. It stood perched on a fold of hills, a massive behemoth complete with thick pillared columns. The marble structure housed none of the triarchs themselves—it was merely a statement building, an empty gesture that gave the illusion of triarch unity. Nyessos chuckled silently.  _ Malaqou hates me, Doniphos is too stupid to hate me, and I hate them both. So much for unity _ . 

 

“The North,” Doniphos agreed, clapping his hands greedily. Each fat finger had a ring on it, gaudy and bright. 

 

“The Queen in the North, Sansa Stark, struggles to maintain stability,” Malaqou said matter-of-factly. “The grain reserve is all but depleted, and my friends tell me that thousands leave Winterfell in droves to avoid starvation and hunger. The Vale had pledged their support, but Robin Arryn was refused betrothal to Lady Stark, and took it...personally. He has withdrew his forces, and thus, more death. More famine.”

 

Doniphos laughed, and Nyessos smiled. 

 

“But it gets better,” Malaqou continued. “There are whispers of upheaval in Dorne. The Martells do not accept Stark leadership, especially under King Bran. The mountain passes have been closed off to trade, and Highgarden has fallen into disrepair under the sellsword Bronn...idiot, if I do say so myself. They say he cannot read, and he, the master of coin!”

 

At this, even Nyessos laughed out loud. If the triarchs agreed on anything, it was that Westeros was doomed. Daenerys Targaryen dead, the Dothraki and Unsullied gone to Naath...the entire continent was in literal shambles. 

 

“And what of the Riverlands?” Nyessos asked. 

 

Malaqou grinned. “Worse off, if it could be possible. Edmure Tully wouldn’t know how to rule if it came up to him and slapped him in the cock.” 

 

That was not a surprise. This  _ Bran _ , Sansa Stark, Edmure Tully...it all stank of incompetence. A rot that would eat the Seven Kingdoms from the inside out. But it was for the best, of course. No longer would Westeros be a rival. 

 

“Well, let the bastards drive it into the ground. After what Daenerys Targaryen did to King’s Landing, does it even matter?” Nyessos asked. 

 

Malaqou shook his head. “No, it does not. But nevermind that. Here come the judges.”

 

The “judges” were a gaggle of old crones carrying swaying lanterns, resplendent in flowing black robes. Every couple years they came to proceed over the re-election proceedings. But it was a matter of perception, for Nyessos knew that they would win again, incumbent, forever and always. 

 

They sat down on the seats, and smiled smiles that revealed gaping holes with yellow, blackened teeth. 

 

“Shall we begin?” one of them asked.

 

The first death happened then, as quick as lightning. One moment a wealthy merchant at the front had been talking to his aristocratic friend, the next he lay face down on the cobbles, drowning in a pool of his own viscous blood. The dagger that opened his throat belonged to his slave. And chaos came to the Eastern Square, as fierce and violent as an unpredicted squall. 

 

Slaves were suddenly wielding weapons, slicing through flesh, blood flung into the air in ruby arcs, splattering the walls, soaking the flagged floor. Malaqou screamed, chin’s wobbling, as a throwing dagger took him in the eye. He slumped back into his chair, defeated. Doniphos had already begun to run, but as if he were some sort of magnetic lodestone, the crowd—a bloody, slave-filled crowd—surged towards him like a single entity and engulfed him. 

 

Nyessos’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, unable to comprehend, to understand—

 

“Come, you fucking idiot!” 

 

A crone grabbed his hand and pushed him off the opposite edge of the platform. He hit the cobbles hard, his right ankle giving out. He didn’t realize there were tears in his eyes. 

 

“What-what-”

 

“Flee!” The crone yelled, but the crowd had gotten to her, and soon he heard the crunch of bone and the splatter of blood. 

 

Guards came rushing out of the warrens and potshops, faces beared in grimaces, weapons raises high. But they were not enough. They were not enough against the slaves. 

 

The dirty, stinking slaves. How  _ dare  _ they. How  _ dare  _ they raise a hand to their masters? Doniphos and Malaqou dead! Where were the other guards, the reinforcements? As he got up and hobbled his way into an alley, he heard the clash of steel from other parts of the city. Was the entirety of Volantis in the grip of the same madness that had ensconced the Eastern Market? 

 

He almost slipped on something. He held whatever it was up and read something about a wheel, and a call to arms, and a girl named Daenerys Stormborn who took Meereen with the courage of the slaves. He gulped, realization settling in his gut like spoiled milk. Another of the letters—pamphlets—skittered across the cobbles ahead. Then another, and another. Hundreds. Fear, white hot and encroaching, shrouded his senses. 

 

And dragons roared. 

 

He pissed, could smell the urine staining his breeches, as the largest beasts Nyessos had ever laid eyes on  _ whooshed  _ overhead with the thump of leathery wings, obscuring the sky, blotting out the stars. A black and green dragon raced to the left, encapsulated in armor, revealing a tiny moonlit figure bent over on the black’s back, tiny as an ant. Nyessos gaped, in awe, shell-shocked, as the massive dragons roared their might again to the night sky. They swooped lower, angling for something, and Nyessos gasped-

 

Flames as thick as tree-trunks took the triarch’s estate. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. It was earth-shattering. 

 

The second the flames touched the marble the rock seemed to explode in dust and ash. Columns and pillars crumbled into soot, the massive building collapsing on its foundations. It was quite a show. The columned fire exploded and shook and tore the earth asunder, rendering the triarch’s estate into a massive slag of molten marble, ash, and scorched ground. 

 

Shocked, he turned to see Nero, his slave. In his hand there glinted a wicked looking dagger. 

 

Nyessos wept. 


	6. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys becomes a dragon rider and warrior once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks for sticking with this story, and thank you for your support. This chapter happens concurrently with chapter 5, but from Dany’s perspective. And we learn a new truth concerning the possibility of, shall we say, other resurrections...

The Climbing onto Drogon’s back felt instinctual, effortless. It was like slipping into a scalding hot bath after spending too much time in the bite of winter. Daenerys’s fears turned to ash, her worries to smoke on the Rhoyne wind. Any second now, the sounds of clashing steel would reverberate up the massive Red Temple temple walls, signaling the start of what Daenerys had planned painstakingly for weeks, in what she had thrown herself into to forget the harsh pain of Missandei’s loss, of Jorah’s loss, of Grey Worm’s departure to Naath with the Unsullied and the remaining Dothraki. 

 

In truth, she felt much the same way as she had before the siege on King’s Landing, of which her memory—and emotions—remained conspicuously enshrouded. Dany knew what she had come to do, what she planned. It was in the same vein as Meereen, when she had taken the colossal city with the help of a few dozen Unsullied. Only this time she did not have Unsullied. All she had were flimsy pamphlets and faith, faith that the Volatene slaves would read her words and make a move. 

 

Drogon had bent his massive black head low on synch with his horned back, his nostrils sniffing the air like shutters opening and closing. This allowed Daenerys, in the bulk of her shimmering battle armor, to cling easier to his back via the sharp, ivory-strength horns that ridged out his spine and neck like tiny sentinels. Beside him, a little ways away on the Temple roof, Rhaegal—his scales a verdant green under the dying day—perched and huffed at the air. Kinvara stood beside him. 

 

“Remember,” Kinvara said. “The estate goes first.”

 

Dany nodded. She knew that first part was instrumental, key to her winning. The triarch’s estate on the Eastern District—a gargantuan, misshapen building made of marble—would need to be burned. It was the symbol of hundreds of years of enslavement, much like the Harpy had been in Astapor, in the Plaza of Pride. If all went according to plan, and Daenerys had no doubts where that was concerned, than the next target was a smidge larger—and more dangerous. But it had to be done. 

 

And so Daenerys waited, and watched. 

 

Volantis was a different sort of beast at night. In the day, peat smoke and fish brine clung to the air like living things, suffusing the sky with a hazy mirage. Thousands walked her streets, and thousands drank, ate, shat, and pissed. Now, at night, lights bobbed in the dark like will-o-the-wisps, lanterns and lantern _bugs_ and torches. Even from atop the enormous Red Temple, Dany could make out the congested Eastern Square. In the days of the Valyrian Freehold, these lights probably did not shine. Thousands, who knew how many, closed their windows and shut their doors when the dragons came wheeling across the sky. A memory flashed in Dany’s head then; the clang of bells, thousands of people surging up a flagged alley, moving like a river, and then succumbing to a great spear of fire…Dany shook herself free of the thought. _I must be focused_ , she thought. _The fire is mine. The fire is_ mine. 

 

“Do you think they will listen to them?” Dany asked. She felt her voice sounded too loud under the dying day. She was silhouetted against the reddened sky, Drogon still and lethal, Rhaegal just as elegantly, determinedly calm.

 

“I think they will,” Kinvara said. “They know what happened when the Bride of Fire came to Slaver’s Bay. They know what they stand to gain.”

 

 _Freedom,_ mused Daenerys. Many a slave knew not what to do with it, once they had it. It was new and scary, and many wished for the old ways. It was not her choice to make. It was theirs, and theirs alone. Only they could pick up the fight; Dany just nudged them in the right direction as best she could. 

 

“I would talk about after,” Daenerys said. “After this battle is won...if we win.”

 

Kinvara bowed respectfully. “Of course, Your Grace.” 

 

“Meereen, Astapor, Yunkai...all left in shambles, a new economy still fledgling…Volantis will need somebody to rule them once I take my leave.”

 

Kinvara was suddenly taken aback. “L-leave, Your Grace?”

 

“Leave,” Dany echoed. A weariness crept into her eyes. “Surely you didn’t think I’d stay? Not with Westeros the way it is, not with my armies scattered across the Narrow Sea?”

 

Kinvara frowned. “Yes, of course, but we-we had plans. _Other_ resurrections, to bolster your forces…”

 

They had arrived at the matter Daenerys had almost forgotten about: the resurrections. About how others were possible. 

 

“You mentioned Missandei. Could she be brought back?”

 

“Yes, but you understand, it would take _years_. You and Rhaegal sapped the acolytes reserves, there needs to be passed time before another attempt—”

 

“Is there not another way?” asked Daenerys. She pinned Kinvara with a smoldering gaze. The red priestess seemed at loss for words, until she finally spoke, albeit reluctantly. 

 

“There...were rumors, in Asshai. But you have to understand, Your Grace, it’s untested magic, Rh’llor only knows what could—”

 

“I would have you tell me of this other way,” Dany interrupted. Kinvara sighed. 

 

“Legend tells that the blood of...of a _seer_ , a greenseer, that their sacrifice can offer up enough magical reserve to resurrect a number of people at a time. But you have to understand, Your Grace, this is dark magic. To kill a greenseer is an affront to gods and men.”

 

Daenerys narrowed her eyes, thinking. And she arrived at an answer. 

 

“I'm inclined to agree. Killing a greenseer is an affront to both gods and men. But, pray tell, what if the greenseer in itself is an affront to gods and men? What if it’s the exception? What if...what if they were not _just_ a greenseer, but _the_ greenseer? And they besmirched their vows to humility and became a king? Who lied, schemed, and puppeteered their way to the top? I know of such a soul.”

 

His white eyes started at her out of the depths of memory. There was something about him, about the man she was talking about, that connected. Not just about the resurrection magic, but about something else, about the destruction of King’s Landing. Had he...had he _warged_ into Dany? No, that wasn’t it. It was something else, some other mystery she’d no doubt find out. 

 

“Brandon Stark,” Kinvara said. And then she smiled. “Why...yes. That...that would be the exception. Went above his calling, above his station, to manipulate his way into power. A greenseer, but an unholy one. Why...yes. It very well might work.”

 

Dany pondered that. Could Bran Stark fall, could he be used to resurrect the lives she lost? Daenerys did not know, but she had to try. _And_ she had to figure out what was so sinister about those blank, white, staring eyes…

 

“We will leave this for later, and the discussion about who will rule Volantis,” Dany said. Kinvara nodded. Dany needed to focus on the night before her, on the coming battle that would either seal her fate in victory or failure. 

 

As if on cue, a sudden plume of Fire—as if from a thrown lantern that exploded—popped into existence and then faded down on one of the many streets. Then, borne on the humid gale, came the unmistakable sounds of steel meeting steel. 

 

“It’s begun,” Kinvara said, a fervor in her eyes. 

 

Daenerys closed her eyes, and prayed to the Mother, to the Maiden, to the Crone and the Stranger, to the Smith, to the Father, and lastly to the Warrior. _Give me strength._ And with a slight pressure on one of Drogon’s horns, dragon and girl took flight as one, the green swinging in behind them. 

 

The slaves had trusted her, and now the battle was begun. 

 

Below her sprawled Volantis, all glittering lights and hazy fires. Drogon’s massive body pulsed beneath her, the _thwump_ of his wings taking her closer and closer to the Eastern District. Rhaegal roared beside her, swooping in low beneath Drogon to protect their flank. And Daenerys knew that back at the Red Temple, Kinvara had now undid whatever magic made the dragons invisible to the people of Volantis. She had worked it on Grolo so he could work on her children’s armor, but now, Dany knew, all would be able to see that the dragons had returned. 

 

The wind snapped and whipped her hair, her cape fluttering behind her like a shadow clinging to its host as the day died. Gods, she _missed_ the feeling of flying. It was power, freedom, happiness and hope. It was everything and nothing, everywhere and nowhere. It couldn’t be described, couldn’t be named. It was simply what it was. She felt like a god, so high up. Drogon’s powerful muscles stretched taut as he snapped his wings and veered left, angling lower, shaking his horned head in the wind, his fiery orange eyes aglow with something perilously close to triumph. She felt much the same way in The Reach, when she had bathed the Lannister forces in fire. 

 

 _There_. 

 

The estate loomed out of the dark, an opulent—yet somehow rotten—tribute to the triarchs’ rule over Volantis. How many slaves had passed through its halls? How many cruel laws handed down, belayed throughout the political ranks to crush the poor? Below her another fire guttered into existence, and even this high up—with the daub-and-wattle homes and limestone shops looking like toy blocks—she could somehow _hear_ the revolution. The turning of the tide, a slow reverse made up of steel clashing and slavers dying. 

 

She angled Drogon lower, towards the fold of hills in which the estate perched. Rhaegal followed suit, low hanging clouds tearing apart in his massive wake as his scales rippled, maneuvering to protect the left flank. _My children. The only children I will ever have._

 

The thought...it did not make her sad. 

 

The ground rushed up to meet Dany, and she—with the skills she had learned, and the ones she inherited—pirouetted Drogon nimbly into a low bank cruise, his huge wings casting cloud-like shadows on the cobbled roofs with smoking chimneys. Drogon roared, a boom of power and terror, and Rhaegal followed as they flew low over Volantis. Dany, almost involuntarily, smiled the smallest of smiles. 

 

Daenerys Targaryen didn’t know it, but below, in a shady back-alley warren in the labyrinth that was Volantis, a slave girl named Laria looked up at the sky as the two massive beasts glided overhead, arcing towards the estate in powerful _thwumps_ . Dany didn’t know this either: the girl smiled, and cried, and beat her hand to her breast. She thought that the Bride of Fire, the Slayer of Lies, had come with fire and blood not just to kill the slavers, but to start something _new_ . In that moment, Laria thought that—just maybe—she was catching a glimpse into what the future could be like. A future without chains, without fear, without cruelty. Thousands more over the city would behold similar and shocked expressions, for surely the giant mammals swooping next to each other in the sky weren’t _dragons_. But they were. Words passed from lips to lips, a torrent, a wildfire, unstoppable and reverent and assured: Daenerys Targaryen was alive. And she was not done answering injustice with justice.The secret kept in the Red Temple was now public knowledge. 

 

Above, Dany coaxed Drogon to slow his speed, Rhaegal mimicking his brother as they neared the estate. Her heart beat furiously against her ribs, almost threatening to burst out of her. The ramifications, the consequences...she had just made a statement. The lie that she was dead, and Rhaegal was dead, no longer bore any truth. Tomorrow, all of Essos would know. A week from then, Westeros. But she was not afraid. _I am of the Fire. I am the blood of the dragon. I have never been nothing._

 

Soon they hovered just above the estate. Drogon flapped his massive winds, which sent massive gusts of wind to blow away the canvas cloth tartans below. Rhaegal flew higher up, again protecting the rear. Daenerys looked at the triarchs pride, at their glory. 

 

“ _Dracarys_.” Drogon reared back and roared. 

 

A pillar of flame as thick as an oak trunk took the estate full in the front, and from above came a second lance of thick flame from Rhaegal. Combined, they formed into a terrifying, sun-hot orange spear, cracking the earth and the wood and the stone. Dany relished in the warmth, in the surety that the building would be destroyed. She could hear screams from below; not from the estate, but doubtless from those near it. At last the building crumpled like wet parchment under the weight of fire, and it fell on its foundations, whatever else still standing blown into the wind as flurries of gray ash. 

 

Not even deigning to see what was left, Dany commanded Drogon up back into the sky—thickening with smoke—and steered him into the direction of the Rhoyne, towards Volantis’s port...

 

To the ships at anchor. 


	7. The Truth of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Volantis continues. Daenerys is headed towards the port of Volantis, hoping to secure as many ships as she can...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m just so, so overwhelmed with the amount of positive feedback I’m getting. I love you guys and I can’t wait to share more of this story with you! And fear not: Jon Snow is coming, as is Yara, Arya, Sansa, Grey Worm, etc. I have colossal plans for this story, and I’m so grateful that you guys are patient and supportive!

Daenerys used to sneak into her brother’s room at night, when they had been children. Viserys would tell her stories of Westerosi knights, of tourneys and melees and sweeping love stories that spanned generations. Sometimes he would tell her of the Usurper, and his hired knives. How they followed them from city to city like some kind of infection, incubating, waiting for a chance to strike. Other times he would tell her of Essos, specifically the Free Cities. He would regale her with stories of laughing maids and fat men, drunk on their own happiness and pride, stepping to their own music. And he would always,  _ always _ , tell her about the port of Volantis. 

 

Even after the Doom that swept Valyria into ruin, even when the Black Walls—limned silver in the moonlight that fell on its crevasses—stood after, the port remained. Volantis, the greatest of the nine Free Cities, was first and foremost the mouth of the gods. All tributaries owed a debt to her. All rivers, all lakes and rapids and oceans. She was the mouth of the Rhoyne, the Mother River, and every ship (if they knew what was good for them) prayed to her. It was for these reasons, these worshippers, that the harbor constantly looked filled to the brim with galleys. Not a day or night passed where there weren’t thousands of ships crammed into the horse-hoof shaped bay, dotting the brown-blue waters like wooden ants. Tonight was no different. When Dany took Drogon beneath the clouds, it unfolded before her like the Painted Table, reflecting the few scruffy clouds outlined in silver, the sky an expanse splattered with stars. Ship bells were ringing as some maneuvered to port and others navigated their way out to open water. 

 

But she did not look towards the merchant vessels and trading galleys, their bowstrips lacquered in gold that refracted the moonlight onto the water. As Drogon’s powerful body flew lower and lower, back muscles rippling, Daenerys had eyes for different targets. She had eyes for the bulky man-o-war galleys, their hulls leaded with iron, the ballast sinking them deep enough to give the illusion of a smaller vessel. Thank the gods, they hadn’t assembled in fleet formation—not yet. They bobbed purposelessly in the brackish water, the chaos now engulfing the city no doubt distracting from the fact that two large—and very angry—dragons were banking in low towards them. 

 

In Dany’s mind, unbidden, came the images of her assault on the ships sieging Meereen prior to her journey to Westeros. She remembered flying in the night before, her heart yearning to see Missandei, to see Grey Worm. She remembered, the next day, Tyrion’s attempts to put a leash on her anger. They had compromised, found common ground between the extremes of violence and diplomacy. Burn the ships, scare the rest. That was about the only thing Daenerys could think positively about in regards to the Imp. If she ever saw him again...well, old gods  _ and  _ the new have mercy on him. 

 

_ Burn the ships, scare the rest.  _

 

At last she had achieved perfect height and distance, hovering fifty feet above the man-o-wars, the ships eerily quiet, Drogon flapping in synch with Rhaegal to stay in the same place, to hover successfully. No lights shone in the cabin portholes. The night-mist that hung over the harbor at night had become a living thing, a blanket spectre that wreathed its wispy tendrils between ships and down streets, suffocating the air and limiting visibility. 

 

_ Odd _ , Dany thought. Even with the slave revolt going on right now—even from here she could hear the clash of steel and the crackling of fire, shouts and screams—the man-o-wars were not likely to sit here idle, unmanned. Everything insofar had gone according to plan. The slaves had risen, the triarch’s estate was burned and the triarchs themselves were no doubt lying in gutters throughout the city, covered in nightsoil. So why...why did something not feel right? It was a prickling at the fringes of Dany’s senses, her neck-hairs bristling. Rhaegal and Drogon gave no notice of anything off; they continued to hover composedly. 

 

_ THWING! _

 

The scorpion bolt—a thick, lead iron shaft—whizzed by as quick as lightning, missing Drogon by a hairsbreadth. Another followed soon after, and whatever gods presided over Daenerys Targaryen, she thanked them—the shaft missed Rhaegal, banking too far to the right.  _ It’s the mist _ , Dany thought, heart beating a tattoo on her ribs.  _ Whoever is shooting cannot see very well _ . And with a shout, Dany yanked Drogon upwards, Rhaegal in tow, just as two more ballistas sliced the air where they had been a moment before.  _ Where are they coming from?  _ Dany thought frantically, adrenaline pumping through her veins.  _ How did they know to have scorpions? HOW DID THEY KNOW? _

 

Dany could not breathe for fear. She looked at Rhaegal, at her son, as he caught an updraft and soared—wings outstretched—to protect the higher air.  _ I cannot see him die again,  _ she thought, the threat of tears welling up behind her eyes.  _ Not again _ . With another scream, she swiveled Drogon back around and—much in the same way she did the day she burned Euron’s fleet to cinders—took Drogon into a dive. 

 

That’s when Dany saw them. 

 

_ The reserve fleet _ . 

 

When Viserys would tell Daenerys stories late at night, before he had became bitter and cruel and violent, he would often talk of war. Not just battles on fields, but all kinds of warfare: aerial, nautical. He liked to talk about strategy and troop movements. He liked the way the battlefield could be arranged like a  _ crevasse _ board, and if you played your cards right, you might just stand a chance of winning. But most of all he loved the stories where the underdogs managed to get the upper hand in the end, and most of those stories always involved a reserve fleet. 

 

Dany shuddered as she dove through the fog, closed and closer. 

 

The reserve fleets were, as the name suggested, reserved—kept in a hidden location until the very last minute, a bulwark of iron and wood to help bolster the losing side. And Volantis was most decidedly losing. There were about two hundred of the large warships, four-masted brigantines whose sails were painted red for war. Lanterns bopped in the crow’s nests and oil lanterns lit up the briny decks, enough for Daenerys to see the massive scorpions arrayed on the forecastle decks: massive crossbow-shaped contractions capable of slinging massive arrows over great distances. 

 

All pointing at her, Drogon, and Rhaegal.

 

With a shout of fear, her anger forgotten, she yanked Drogon up once more just as the  _ THWINGS  _ of more scorpions could be heard being set off.  _ THWING, THWUNG, THWING, THWUNG.  _ They whizzed through the air, black daggers, and Daenerys managed to successfully maneuver Drogon into a firmament dive, getting him higher and higher, his massive wings  _ thwumping _ the air in a furious beat as he fought to gain altitude. Rhaegal followed close behind, soaring—

 

_ THWICK! _

 

A scorpion bolt ripped through the fibrous layer of his wing, scattering skin to the wind. “ _ RHAEGAL!”  _ screamed Dany, heart in her throat. 

Rhaegal gave a piteous whine, in pain, and he struggled to fly upwards, his wing...his wing...

But her baby boy righted himself and shook his head, as if to dispel the pain. With a furious roar, which was half a painful whine, he managed to set the same speed. Daenerys, relieved, realized the bolt had come in at an odd angle and only ripped a piece of the skin off. He would be okay. But the men on the ships below would not be okay, certainly fucking not. A fire was lit in Dany’s eyes, a terrible anger that seemed to spark and crackle. 

 

_ Enough with the clever plans _ . 

 

Knowing she was putting herself and her dragons at great risk, she turned Drogon around for another dive—but this time she did it far from the fleet of ships, whose lanterns she could see bobbing in the mist like will-o-wisps. She made for open water. As she did, she remembered when she had been sailing for Astapor and they had first caught sight of it. How Drogon had dived beneath the water to catch a fish. Daenerys urged her son to go faster, Rhaegal flying in behind. 

 

***

 

Beetle was  _ tired.  _ All day he had been cleaning the scorpions, slicking the arrow grooves with oil and keeping dirt from accumulating. All day he had endured the heave and bob of the reserve galley, watched the lights in the crow’s nest bob up and down, watch the others lights from the other ships wink tantalizingly through the veil of mist that lay heavy over Volantis’s harbor. 

 

But finally, minutes ago, they had received their orders and seen her. They had been told, in no uncertain terms, their mission: kill the dragon queen. She had been heading for the fleet, not realizing a reserve was waiting for her. They missed the first couple of shots, sure, but they’d get her. The quartermaster hadn’t come up from below decks yet, either. Apparently the bitch queen and her dragons had made an attempt on the reserve fleet minutes ago  _ again _ , but the ballistas drew them off. The fucking cunt whore had met her match, it seemed, and despite Beetle’s exhaustion he smiled. They would kill her tonight, and then they’d crush the vermin revolting in the streets. Beetle thought about shooting a scorpion right through her tits, over her heart, where rumor had it she had been stabbed. 

 

_ Or I could stab her with something else _ , Beetle thought, spitting over the deck. He grabbed his cock and tugged it.  _ I could teach her a thing or two _ . He wondered where the dragon whore was now. Burning Volantis to the ground, no doubt, the crazy mad bitch. He spit over the deck again. 

 

But the spit never landed, because it fell in the open, widening maw of a dragon’s mouth shooting out of the water, and Beetle pissed and shat himself both in the fraction of a second that i took for him to see that, for it was the mouth of Hell come to swallow him whole. 

 

***

 

Not being able to hold her breath any longer, Dany urged Drogon out of the muddy water—her armor soaked, her braid flinging water as they flew—to the port side of the farthest galley in the fleet. 

 

_ “DRACARYS!”  _

 

Drogon spread his wings and roared. The colossal spout of flame took the ship and sundered it in a matter of seconds, and before the alarm could be raised, Drogon dove back under the water—his massive size sending rogue waves out on all sides—and Daenerys held on tight, white-knuckled, to his horns. And they did it again, and again, and again. Rhaegal and Drogon dove under water as nimble as fishes and came bursting out to rain hellfire down on the unsuspecting ships, their scorpions trained for the air, not the sea. Dany, through it all, let out a girlish laugh, and she felt ten years younger. She was riding dragons as though they were dolphins, diving in and out of the soiled water, and she felt every inch a Targaryen: wild, free, untouchable. 

 

Riding a dragon above air was one thing, but underwater it was an entirely different affair. In the sky you could open your eyes despite the stinging wind and bright sun. Underwater, however, you had to take greedy gulps of breath before plunging under. Daenerys could not open her eyes too wide, or the rushing water from the speed Drogon took would render her blind. So instead she creaked them open just a little, just to see the silhouettes of the reserve ships’ hulls on the surface, lit silver by the moon. And then Drogon would  _ SLAM  _ out of the water with the force of a wildfire explosion and roar flame down on the ship. The flame would leap from sail to sail and from slat to slat so fast it was almost incomprehensible to watch. In a matter of seconds the ship was subsumed in a blaze and cracked under the inferno, sending its men and cargo to the watery depths. Daenerys hadn’t felt such triumph since the Loot Train Attack, when she had arrayed her might against the Lannister forces on The Reach and smashed their army to kindling. The attack on King’s Landing was a blurry haze in comparison. 

 

And for what seemed like hours, or days, or years, Daenerys Targaryen slipped in and out of the harbor water until what remained was charred, splintery masts poking out of the water, some still aflame. Bloated, charred bodies floated here and there. The flotsam and jetsam was a compilation of the dead, of burning rigging, and slabs of wood that had been torn asunder from their ships. Some had troops on them, burning. 

 

Daenerys Targaryen had won. The Freehold was hers. 

 

But something caught her eye as she flew, face streaked with dirt and soot from the fires, over the carnage. One of the masts had an emblem, a sigil: a dark red and mustard yellow pattern, a wavy dagger thrust betwixt them. 

 

_ The Second Sons _ . Most of the ships had had red sails, but this…

 

Come to think of it, as she flew over once more, some of the burning soldiers wore mercenary leathers. They were sellswords. They had been bought, then, and paid for. But Volantis wouldn’t have paid for an army when they already had one. Come to think of it, why hadn’t their regular fleet been active before the reserve? And why give the reserve to the Second Sons anyway? It didn’t make any sense. And again, she kept going back to the question of the first fleet: where were the men that garrisoned them? A wealth of questions bubbled in Dany’s head, one after the other, and she could not understand it. Something, still, wasn’t right. Because...because…

 

_ No.  _

 

The sweet tang of victory turned sour in her mouth as the truth hit her, as the betrayal careened through her with as much grace as a wrecking ball.  _ No. It can’t be. It...can’t be… _ The smile disappeared from Dany’s face and a panic crept into her expression, a frantic urgency that bordered perilously close towards hysteria. She tugged Drogon upwards, his tail snapping a mast-rig in half as he went. Rhaegal followed as she flew towards western Volantis.

 

As she flew towards the horrible truth that awaited her there. 

 


	8. Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys unravels a particularly unpleasant discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with my fic! I love how supportive this fandom can be! Here’s to more chapters to come;)

Kinvara waited for Daenerys on the obsidian roof of the Red Temple, her priestess robes like liquid fire under the stars. Drogon alighted on the Temple roof gracefully, though his massive weight sent vibrations through the dragonglass. Kinvara’s face gave no indication of surprise, no flicker of astonishment, though Dany knew deep down that shock waves were coursing through Kinvara’s veins like ice. Adrenaline out pouring from the terrible truth that her grand plan had, despite its contingencies, failed miserably. Dany did not get off of Drogon. 

 

“Your Grace,” Kinvara said. She smiled. 

 

“Priestess,” Dany said, hoping that Kinvara could sense what was coming...could sense what she deserved. 

 

“I had not thought you’d be back so soon.”

 

_ The audacity of her _ . 

 

Daenerys smiled, putting as much power into it as she could. Kinvara’s smile faltered. 

 

“I like to surprise my friends...and my enemies. Tell me, Priestess, how much gold did you take from the Temple coffers to pay for the reserve ships? The reserve ships that slaughtered the actual Volantene navy? That tried to slaughter me?”

 

“40,000” Kinvara said casually. 

 

_ Not even denying it _ . 

 

“And the acolytes? Did they know?”

 

“Every one of them, yes.”

 

Daenerys’s smile curdled, turning into a bitter frown. Her silver war braid flapped in the wind coming off the Rhoyne. 

 

“Tell me. Tell me everything.”

 

Kinvara, knowing she had no other choice, obliged. 

 

“Resurrecting you and Rhaegal took a power beyond a scale which we thought possible. But we did it nonetheless.”

 

Dany knew all this already, but found a truth in it regardless. “You never did it out of the kindness of your heart.”

 

This time something fiery shone in Kinvara’s maroon eyes, like amber venom. “Oh, but it  _ was  _ out of the kindness of our hearts. Resurrecting you was a service to Rh’llor. There is no greater gift of light than a dragon.”

 

Daenerys sneered. 

 

“Tyrion Lannister. Varys. Sansa Stark, Jaime Lannister. All of them thought to put a leash on me. I proved to them that a dragon is no  _ slave _ .”

 

“But a slave you had to become nonetheless,” Kinvara tutted sadly, as if they were discussing a bad bout of flu. “What, you think we cared of the slaves? Of the downtrodden? True, they have their uses. But their uses fall short of Rh’llor’s plan: to rid the world of false gods. And, coincidentally, it all started with you. It  _ had  _ to start with you.”

 

The puzzle pieces fell into place, each a tiny wave of disgust that rippled outward from her stomach, to the tips of her fingers, setting them tingling. 

 

_ The armor _ .  _ The bloody fucking armor _ . 

 

“The armor,” Dany repeated out loud. “You enchanted it. You’d knew I’d want to fit myself and my dragons with armor. It was perfect. You set binding spells to it. If I wish to burn you, here and now…” Dany trailed off, the answer obvious. 

 

“You wouldn’t be able to,” Kinvara finished for her, smiling brightly again, as if she were the happiest person in the world. “It was easy to enchant Grolo to do our bidding after you spoke with him.”

 

“But why the slaves? Why the revolt?”

 

“We needed you initially. The magic in your blood, while not that great as in, let’s say, King Bran, is nonetheless powerful. It helped us resurrect Rhaegal. We’d have two dragons, instead of one.”

 

“And the promises of Missandei? Of my dead allies and friends?”

 

“Not entirely untrue, but bait to keep you from finding out the truth. When we had no need of you, we knew you’d propose a revolt after the depravity you’d see in Volantis’s streets...poor Daenerys Targaryen, killed in the battle in all the confusion. Nobody would know the wiser.”

 

Daenerys, and she would pride herself on it later, did not cry. She did not stamp her foot on Drogon and take off in a fury. She simply stared daggers at Kinvara. 

 

“You do not want to do this,” she said calmly. 

 

“Oh, but I do.” Kinvara walked closer, walking gracefully. “Think of a world where there is no Mother, Maiden, Crone or Stranger. Where there is no ‘Old Gods’. Think of a world that is subjugated to Rh’llor’s will. And the best way to plant a garden as ambitious as that is through something equally ambitious...hence you. The dragons.”

 

Drogon roared then, an ear splitting shriek that made Kinvara stumble backwards. But too late: Kinvara yelled a strange spell and Drogon suddenly grew quiet, and Dany’s temper rose.  _ A dragon is no slave _ ,  _ and yet she has made him one. She has made  _ me  _ one _ . 

 

Kinvara suddenly clapped her hands, and out from the roof door came the acolytes, some still dusted from the battle still roaring in the streets below. Most had livid red lacerations criss-crossing their bodies. Some limped, some had bruised eyes and broken fingers, yet on they came, dragging themselves like wights to stand behind Kinvara. They were nowhere near their full number—doubtless most still fought in the streets and guarded the Temple itself. 

 

Another truth occurred to Dany. 

 

“You didn’t want me fighting this revolt,” she said. “But you knew by being hesitant about it, pretending to care that it was too soon, that I’d be driven even more to do it. You knew my impulsivity, my stubbornness.”

 

Kinvara laughed, and it did not sound kind. It did not sound like it belonged to the woman Daenerys thought she had known for weeks now, a woman who revived her and her children. Who had given them hearth and home, safety and sustenance. How could somebody so evil hide behind a kind veneer so unbreakable?  _ How _ ? Unbidden came other betrayals, flashing through her mind, and her heart clenched.  _ Jorah. Jon. Varys. Tyrion _ . Too many. 

 

All her life Daenerys had been running towards the red door with the lemon tree outside the window in Braavos. All her life, on this path, she looked over her shoulder constantly. There were knives in every alleyway, itching to sink into her skin. 

 

_ Is there nobody in the world I can trust?  _

 

Kinvara stopped laughing. “Well, I would say it’s been a pleasure, but that would be a lie. Let me carry on with the deed, however unpleasant.”

 

She snapped her fingers and the acolytes stumbled forward. Dany, in a panic, urged Drogon to fly but he would not move. Rhaegal just flew in lazy circles around the Temple,

becoming oblivious to whatever strange magic Kinvara was working. Dany’s armor, also enchanted, prevented her from climbing off. 

 

_ I cannot die again. Not so soon, I cannot, I cannot! _

 

And then a roar split the taut silence, shattering it, shattering the acolytes forward momentum, Kinvara’s concentration, and Dany’s wild fear. 

She looked for the source and almost fainted, then and there. 

 

On the smoke-choked horizon flew a ragged and cut up looking Viserion. 

 

On his back was Jon Snow. 


End file.
